


Process: Sight and Measure

by cocoacremeandgays



Category: South Park
Genre: Angst, Art Exhibition, M/M, Parking lots, Unsupportive family, paintings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:01:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22747486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoacremeandgays/pseuds/cocoacremeandgays
Summary: “Finally!” Tweek says, tucking away the money pouch in the ten-dollar lock-box register from the hardware store. “I thought you’d never make it, man, I was getting really worried!”((AKA: Craig reluctantly comes to an art exhibition to support his boyfriend's baked goods. After sitting in the parking lot for way too long, he finally goes inside. Tweek walks with Craig around the exhibit, and shows Craig his favorite painting.))
Relationships: Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak
Comments: 5
Kudos: 57





	Process: Sight and Measure

Craig thinks of expo markers and white boards. He has no real reason to think of such things, other than the fact that snow always reminds him of when he was younger. He recalls the feeling of using his fingertip to clear an entirely-covered white board, remembers the debris that would collect on the pad of his thumb. Distinctly, he recalls the smell; alcohol and water, chemical and youthful. He wonders how difficult it would be to portray snow on a white board— he thinks it might be worthwhile to scrap the white board idea entirely, and instead falls into thoughts of oil pastels and charcoal. Perhaps he could even dabble in a little finger painting.

He remembers that smell, too. Plastic and distinctly _paint_. He remembers the way childhood clay smells— the vague scent of marshmallows, even though no one else seemed to be able to smell it.

**A List of Smells:**   
**I. alcohol**   
**II. plastic**   
**III. marshmallows**

But he’s nowhere near these smells. In fact, he’s about as far away from these smells as he can probably get. Even though there’s an art exhibition going on in the building immediately behind him, none of them are used with any of the childhood materials he recalls most fondly.

Craig hasn’t even gone inside yet. He doesn’t know if he will, even though he probably should. Tweek is in there selling cupcakes and cookies and other baked goods for the reception, and Craig promised he would come. _I just have to get a ride from my mom_ , he’d said, and he hadn’t meant it to be a lie. Really, he hadn’t. He told his parents multiple times about the art show tonight, but still, they forgot. And he gets it. He really, really gets it. They’re busy. They’re making money. They’re providing for the family, doesn’t he see just how much they do for him? _The art show is up for the rest of December, you’ll have plenty of time to look at it later._

But the reception is only tonight. A quick glance at his watch reveals it ends in approximately eight minutes (and twenty-two seconds). If he doesn’t go in, Tweek will be upset. He’ll be sad. He’ll get that look on his face, that disappointed one, that _but I thought you wanted to come_ look. Craig doesn’t know if he can handle that look, but he thinks he’s going to have to no matter what. The hopelessness sets in, and Craig just doesn’t fight it. He sits down on the curb, listening to the snow-crunch sounds of other people’s boots as they enter and exit the Park County Community Center.

He watches.

**He watches:**   
**I. the snow fall**   
**II. the people walk**   
**III. the cars leave.**

More footsteps crunching, more people chattering. A young couple suggests getting ice cream to their two young children, who both immediately leap up and down in excitement. They disappear across the parking lot and soon their SUV pulls out and the center is one family emptier. Craig feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He ignores it. Two minutes later, it buzzes again. A reminder. In case he hadn’t heard or felt it the first time, but he had.

He becomes swept up in the snowfall. He sees the stars in the sky, and the moon is so bright it rivals the sun. It’s large and in charge in the sky, and Craig wants to capture that. He wants, so badly, to recover the images of the moon he has stored in his mind and pinpoint and draw out every last detail— goodness knows he’s analyzed enough pictures to have the entire surface of it committed to memory.

Someone touches his shoulder, and he looks up. He half expects it to be Tweek, but it’s not. It’s a little girl, covered head-to-toe in snow gear. Her eyes are wide and watery in the cold. She keeps blinking them. “Are you okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Craig says. She nods firmly, suddenly appearing determined— and promptly pats him on the head. Startled, Craig has no idea what to do.

“Are you sad?” she asks. She doesn’t wait for an answer. “When I’m sad, I look at pretty pictures. There are lots of pretty pictures in there, you should look at them. Okay?”

She’s so certain that he can’t deny her. He simply nods and says he’ll check it out. Appeased, the little girl walks off, toward a small brown car where a woman stands in her half-open car door, looking upset. She probably scolds the little girl, but Craig doesn’t stick around long enough to find out. His phone buzzes in his pocket again, and he decides he should really stop feeling sorry for himself and just go inside already. He stands up and makes his way into the community center, where the warm air hits him immediately like someone blowing in his face.

**He sees:**   
**I. stranger**   
**II. stranger**   
**III. stranger**   
**IV. Tweek.**

Slowly, Craig walks over to the bake sale table open for some-free some-not-free desserts. Tweek is packing up, blinking hard every so often with the suppression of a tic. When Craig finally comes to a stop immediately in front of the table, Tweek looks up. His face goes from concentrated to happy in a split second, smiling. Craig doesn’t look at his eyes; he can’t handle eye contact right now. 

“Finally!” Tweek says, tucking away the money pouch in the ten-dollar lock-box register from the hardware store. “I thought you’d never make it, man, I was getting really worried!”

“Well, I’m here,” Craig says.

“Good!” Tweek says. He looks over to Bebe, who chats with Wendy and Stan and some other random girl Craig doesn’t care enough about to remember her name. “Could you finish packing up? I want to walk around with Craig for a bit.”

Bebe perks up. “Of course! You two have a ball of a time.” She shoots them a wink, and soon enough, Craig and Tweek are meandering the hallway, looking at the art pieces set up in frames. Plenty of people from their school got featured in the art show, it seems, from the sheer number of pieces on the walls. Though it quickly dons on Craig that many of these pieces have the same name. That means that maybe only twelve from their entire high school actually got something put up. 

Something happens in Craig’s chest. He doesn’t like it.

“Here!” Tweek says, grip tightening on Craig’s hand as he pulls him over to one of the far walls. Craig notices a scratchboard drawing of a cat that looks way too realistic to be from the hands of a sophomore. He admires the talent. Tweek nudges Craig’s shoulder with his own and points up toward one of the center pictures. Craig follows the gesture with his eyes. Tweek clarifies, “This one’s my favorite.”

A watered-down, realistic acrylic painting of a birch forest during fall. The background is a smattering of oranges, reds, and yellows. The foreground pertains a few greens and while the trees are mostly white, they also have added blues and neutrals for shadows. One can barely see the sun peeking up from behind the bottom right of the portrait’s horizon, hardly even able to be seen. But Craig sees it. Craig knows it’s there. Craig knows everything about this painting.

**The artist credit label underneath the painting reads, simply:**   
**III. Advanced Drawing and Painting**   
**II. Grade 12**   
**I. Craig Tucker.**

Seeing it up there, on the wall, next to all of these beautiful works of art— it’s overwhelming. He finds himself just staring, waiting for it to do something, even though he knows it never will. It’s just a painting. It’s inanimate. It can’t move. But he waits for it to. He thinks he wants it to. He hopes for that shock to override the shock already going through his system.

Craig knew it would be here, but _actually seeing it…_

Seeing his name on his painting in an art show is… a lot.

He made it. It might sound stupid, but that’s what his brain tells him. _I made it._

And his parents couldn’t come to see it.

Thoughts swirl in his head.

**Thoughts:**   
**I. they couldn’t come see it**   
**II. they wouldn’t come see it**   
**III. maybe they didn’t want to see it**   
**IV. maybe they don’t care**   
**(V. art doesn’t bring in money)**   
**(VI. art isn’t a career)**   
**(VII. he can’t help his family with this)**   
**(VIII. what was his goal?)**   
**(VIV. what’s the point?)**

Craig’s eyes burn. He blinks it away. Tries to, at least. It doesn’t leave. The tears only serve to come faster, dripping down his cheeks. With his free arm, he rubs his eyes dry. But the act triggers muscle memory, and he sobs softly into the material of his jacket. He wants his mom to be here. He wants his dad to be here. He wants Tricia to be here, even though she flat-out said no when he asked. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

It hurts to stand here, in front of an achievement, with only one person in the whole, entire world who actually finds value in it.

**Because:**   
**I. Craig**   
**II. sure**   
**III. doesn’t**   
**(IV. not anymore.)**

**Author's Note:**

> a ventfic i wrote back in december but never had the confidence to post. i found it today and decided to share it with y'all.
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


End file.
